"Has to be. No other way they'd know about the cash pickup schedule."
I pressed myself against the wall outside the study, my breath shallow. Three dead. An attack on one of his clubs. A leak that was feeding information to his enemies.
The violence I'd been insulated from on this island—it was still happening. Still claiming lives. And Vasily was at the center of it, even from thousands of miles away.
"I'm coming back," he said. "Arrange the plane for tomorrow morning."
"The men will be glad to see you, boss. They've been asking—"
"I don't care what they've been asking. I care about finding whoever's feeding Pankratov information and making an example of them." A pause. "Have Semyon meet me at the penthouse. We need to go through every possible source of the leak."
"Yes, boss."
The call ended. I heard movement inside the study—footsteps, the clink of glass—and quickly retreated before he could find me eavesdropping.
But I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd heard.
Tomorrow morning. He was leaving tomorrow morning.
***
He found me in the library an hour later.
I'd tried to return to work, but the numbers swam before my eyes. All I could think about was the attack, the dead men, the war Vasily was flying back to fight. A war that existed, in part, because of his obsession with me.
"You heard," he said from the doorway.
I didn't bother denying it. "Three dead?"
"Yes." He moved into the room, lowering himself into the chair across from mine. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than they'd been this morning. "Pankratov hit The Trophy Room during a cash pickup. Knew exactly when and where to strike."
"The leak."
"Someone in my organization is feeding him information. Has been for weeks, maybe longer." His jaw tightened. "I should have dealt with this sooner. Should have been in New York instead of—"
"Instead of here. With me."
He didn't deny it.
"Tell me about him," I said. "Pankratov. I want to understand what you're fighting."
Vasily was quiet for a moment, studying me. Then he leaned back in his chair and began to speak.
"Aram Pankratov leads the Armenian organization in New York. We've had territorial disputes for years—gambling dens, protection routes, the usual friction. But it's escalated in the past eighteen months. He wants what we have. The ports, the clubs, the distribution networks. He's been pushing, testing, looking for weaknesses."
"And then he found one."
"Yes." His eyes met mine. "He found you."
The words hit like a blow, even though I'd already suspected. "Because you were watching me. Because your men saw you driving past my apartment every night."
"My obsession made me careless. Made you visible." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I'd never seen from him before. "If I'd kept my distance, if I'd controlled myself—"
"I wouldn't be here."
"No. You'd still be in New York, living your life, safe and oblivious."
"And probably dead," I said the words before I could think better of them. "That's what you told me, isn't it? That Pankratov would have taken me anyway, used me to get to you."
